|
Let me set the scene for you. . . A sandy, rocky beach, the tides marked by a black line of debris. Occasionally there is a piece of charred wood. Maybe torn tent fabric is whisked around by the wind or caught in the trees and bushes that mark the extent of the beach, they flap about helplessly like mice in a humanitarian trap. It's a gentle breeze so the noise is minimal. Sand crabs dash here and there. It's just before twilight so if you're looking West the sun is blinding. If you're looking East you can see those trees and bushes. Somewhere on this beach, near alot of flapping canvas and charred wood, sits an old lady. She looks to be a hard-pressed 70 but she's really only in her 50's. Her hair is unkempt, her face dirty and streaked. Great pockets sag beneath her deafened eyes and threaten to eat them up. Hanging limp and too big on her skeleton, her clothes are in tatters, as if she has been sitting for eons. Maybe she has. She seems to be in repose: hands in her lap and still; head slightly bowed, asking abeyance of the setting sun. There is nothing anyone could do to cause her more pain--she has been beaten down like a post and the rail inserted into her soul. Let me tell you her story. . . She was a queen, a woman at the apex of power. She had a loving husband, theirs had been a good match, something out of fairy tales. She'd had several children and provided for them as best she could. There were those who considered her a barbarian and her land a tub of illiterate slobs. This woman had seen, centuries before her, the height of the world's culture, the first moral code. Not all children are a credit to their parents and when her #1 son came home from a raiding expedition with a slut as bounty, her patience deserted her. This piece of barter was a beauty to be sure and she doted on her son (what woman wouldn't in her position?) but she was still a slut whore cunt bitch because she was not good enough for her son. Then a whole bunch of armed men appeared around her town and demanded her son's head and the pretty wench to boot. They were a rude sort. They waged a wasting away kind of war and when there were no more men to battle they started pounding on the women and when there were no more women to be raped they began slaughtering them and burning them in the name of one god or another, one ghost or another. After that they took off, leaving no one but the old queen and some old man who had completely lost his marbles and could be heard yelling deprecations against life somewhere in the ruins. She saw her husband and son butchered, had her daughters raped and sacrificed and discovered her youngest, 14 year old son's bloated carcass on the beach. She's got so little left she can't even die. And these people called themselves civilized! These people called themselves the Golden Age of Mankind! The curses in her belly remained impotent, unable to mount upward to shatter the light of day. Let me tell you what she does. . . She moves her hands down her thighs to her knees. She leans forward and barks like a dog and then she howls like a dog. She doesn't stop. The grey old man appears at the top of the beach. He walks down to where the old queen is. He stands quietly. Then he sits, behind her and slightly to her left. He waits an interminable amount of time and then he says, "Those who have just cause never lack good arguments." And again, sometime later, "The common interests of states and individuals demand good and evil should receive their just rewards." And a third time but not so as to muffle the echo of prior utterances, "The inconsistent gods make chaos of our lives, wantonly pitching us about and expecting us to turn to them for aid. Hah! My sorrow does not help." Let me set the scene. . . A sign on a beach. It is weather-beaten and askew. It reads: Troy Museum 5 km. A little farther up the sandy rocky beach where the tides are marked by black lines. . . Recommend this article...
 Quote this article on your site | Views: 5566
Powered by AkoComment Tweaked Special Edition v.1.4.4
|
Technorati Profile
